In some distant age—
when the world tilts too far toward cruelty,
when the strong forget restraint and the weak forget hope,
a soul is born that does not accept the order of things.
Not a hero praised by crowds.
Not a king crowned by blood.
But one who walks through suffering without becoming hollow.
One who bears pain without letting it rot into hatred.
Such a soul appears rarely.
And when it does, balance begins to shift.
In ancient whispers, they called such a being—
The Honoured One.
But on this quiet autumn evening,
that soul stood trembling in oversized clothes,
clutching the hand of a stranger,
with tear-filled eyes and a voice that barely held together.
"Kihoru."
That was the name he gave.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The wind moved gently through the school grounds.
Dry leaves scraped across concrete, swirling around broken shadows and fading sunlight. Autumn had arrived without asking permission, painting the world in muted golds and browns—like everything was slowly preparing to let go.
Kihoru's fingers were still wrapped tightly around the middle-aged man's hand.
He hadn't realized how desperate the grip was until the man glanced down at it.
Kihoru quickly loosened his hold, embarrassment flushing his face. "S-Sorry…"
The man didn't pull away.
He simply stood there, hands relaxed, eyes steady.
"You asked me something," the man said calmly.
Kihoru swallowed. His throat felt dry, like he'd been running for hours.
"Please," he said again, bowing slightly. "Teach me. Teach me how to fight back… in fights… and in real life."
The wind picked up, rustling leaves louder this time.
For a moment, the man said nothing.
He just looked at Kihoru.
Not at his body.
Not at his clothes.
Not at the bruises blooming beneath fabric.
He looked into his eyes.
And what stared back wasn't anger.
It wasn't revenge.
It was hunger.
Not for power—but for change.
A fire that didn't burn wildly, but steadily.
The kind that survived storms.
The man finally spoke.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why do you want to learn this?"
Kihoru hesitated.
No one had ever asked him that before.
People usually told him what he was.
Weak. Fat. Useless. Quiet.
No one ever asked what he wanted.
"I…" His voice shook. "I don't want to hurt people."
The man raised an eyebrow slightly.
"I just… don't want to keep breaking," Kihoru continued. "Every time someone pushes me… every time someone looks at me like I don't belong… something inside me cracks."
The man nodded once. "And who are you?"
Kihoru straightened instinctively.
"My name is Kihoru."
The wind surged.
Dry leaves lifted into the air as if responding to something unseen.
In another time—
in another story—
that name would echo across cities and borders.
Kihoru.
The Honoured One.
But right now, he was just a boy trying not to fall apart.
"Come," the man said suddenly.
Kihoru blinked. "Huh?"
"You haven't eaten," the man said, already walking. "Your hands are shaking."
"I—I'm okay," Kihoru lied automatically.
The man stopped and looked back at him.
"No," he said firmly. "You're not."
That was enough.
Kihoru followed him out of the school grounds, footsteps awkward, mind racing with confusion and disbelief. He didn't know where they were going—and for once, he didn't care.
They walked for a few minutes before reaching a small roadside bakery. The smell of warm bread drifted into the street, soft and comforting.
The man stepped inside and returned moments later with two bakery buns wrapped in paper and a bottle of water.
He handed them to Kihoru without ceremony.
"Eat."
Kihoru stared at the food.
"I—I can't—"
"You can," the man interrupted. "And you will."
Slowly, Kihoru accepted them.
The first bite nearly broke him.
Not because it tasted amazing—but because he hadn't realized how hungry he was. His hands trembled as he ate, chewing quickly, then slowing as warmth spread through his chest.
The man waited silently.
After a while, Kihoru finished and wiped his mouth hurriedly, embarrassed again.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The man nodded. "Now talk."
They sat on a low wall near the empty street.
The world felt quieter here.
And so…
Kihoru began.
He spoke about his childhood.
About being different.
About being slow, clumsy, and too soft in a world that rewarded sharpness.
He spoke about school corridors that felt like battlefields. About laughter that followed him like a curse. About teachers who overlooked him because he wasn't worth the effort.
He spoke about his father.
Not in rage.
Not in hatred.
Just… emptiness.
A man who drank away whatever kindness he once had. A presence that filled the house with tension and silence. A shadow that made home feel unsafe.
And then—his mother.
The only warmth he knew.
"She tried," Kihoru said quietly. "Even when she was tired… even when she was scared… she tried."
His voice cracked.
"I didn't want to disappoint her."
The man listened.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't pity.
Kihoru spoke about being alone. Always alone. About watching other kids form groups, friendships, dreams—while he stayed invisible.
"And today…" Kihoru swallowed hard. "When I saw that boy getting bullied… I didn't think. I just moved."
His hands clenched. "And when he ran away… I understood."
The man tilted his head slightly.
"Understood what?"
"That fear makes you selfish," Kihoru said. "I didn't hate him for running. I just… hated myself for expecting anything different."
Silence stretched between them.
Autumn leaves continued to fall.
Finally, the man spoke.
"You carry pain differently," he said.
Kihoru looked up. "Is that bad?"
"No," the man replied. "It's rare."
He stood.
"Kihoru," he said softly. "I will help you."
Kihoru froze.
"I will teach you everything I know," the man continued. "But on one condition."
"Yes!" Kihoru said instantly. "Anything!"
"You tell no one," the man said. "Not my name. Not what you saw today. Not what you will learn."
Kihoru nodded rapidly. "I promise."
The man extended his hand.
Kihoru hesitated—then took it.
A grip firm, steady, grounding.
"May I…?" Kihoru asked quietly.
"Hm?"
"Can I hug you… uncle?"
The word slipped out naturally.
The man paused—then smiled faintly.
"Of course you can."
Kihoru stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
And for the first time in years—
he cried.
Not loud.
Not broken.
Just silent tears soaking into fabric, carrying away weight he'd held far too long.
The man rested a hand on his head, steady and warm.
"It's okay," he said quietly. "You don't have to be strong today."
After a while, Kihoru pulled back, wiping his face awkwardly.
"S-Sorry…"
The man shook his head. "Never apologize for surviving."
Kihoru inhaled deeply.
Then asked, softly—
"Uncle… what's your name?"
The wind rose again.
And somewhere, far beyond this moment,
fate listened.